


for we are made of stars

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amateur Astronomy Hour with Jaskier and Geralt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Stargazing, two soft boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: “We are ashes from the stars’ violent deaths, but we coalesce and join together into these wonderfully complicated beings, and we live and we love and we die, and when we die we become ashes once more, back to being the stuff of stars. I know not what happens after death, but I do so like the idea that one day, when I die, I’ll somehow return to the stars and I’ll be there above you, watching over from afar.”Or: Jaskier decides how he can bring comfort to Geralt after he's gone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 140





	for we are made of stars

**Author's Note:**

> I had been contemplating my favorite writing prompt list, and then I was having Emotions about that line from the Cosmos miniseries, "We are made of star stuff," you know, as one does, and then this happened. Written for the prompt "things you said under the stars and in the grass." This is soft, and a little sad, but also very soft. (The MCD is referenced but not described in depth.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

“And so he pursues the sisters endlessly, chasing them through the celestial heavens, but never coming closer to his quarry. They stay mere steps ahead, evading him, but eternally. Safe, in a way, for all that they remain imperiled.” Jaskier’s voice, dreamy and languid as twilight makes its slow slide into night, trails off, and he tilts his head to rest against Geralt’s, his gaze remaining fixed on the stars above their heads. “That was always my favorite of the myths about the stars.”

“Hmmmmm.” Geralt can’t say that he’s ever thought too much or for too long about the stars, save for knowing how to use them to guide him on the Path, but he likes this story, too, although perhaps that’s only because it’s Jaskier telling it, by turns animated, by turns somber, the lilt in his voice soothing and familiar after so many similar moments shared on nights such as this over the decades. He slowly walks his fingers up Jaskier’s spine, catching on the folds of his own shirt. It’ll smell like Jaskier later. The thought is a pleasant one.

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees, shifting on their shared bedroll to drape his arm across Geralt’s bare stomach, shifting closer, always closer.

He lapses into a comfortable silence, one that rests easily around them, demanding nothing. He can still fill the air with chatter like no one else can, talking a mile a minute about something particular that has caught his fancy, quick with a pun or a clever observation, even quicker with words that leap to Geralt’s defense when townspeople and villagers persist in grumbling about a Witcher in their midst, but as the years have passed and the silver settles in his hair and the lines deepen around his eyes--signs of a life lived well, and joyfully--he has started to embrace these quiet moments where there’s no pressure for speech, only unspoken understanding between them.

The silence stretches for long enough that Geralt would wonder if Jaskier had fallen into a light slumber were it not for the way that his heartbeat remains quick. It’s faster than normal, almost nervous, and as Jaskier takes a deep breath to speak once more, Geralt uses all his Witcher training to force himself not to tense, to remain relaxed when Jaskier slides down enough so that he can rest his head on Geralt’s chest.

“I heard something interesting about the stars, last time I was in Oxenfurt,” Jaskier murmurs, the words spoken more into Geralt’s skin than into the chill of the night air that’s beginning to settle in. His fingers tighten on Geralt’s waist, a light scratch of his nails, and Geralt doesn’t bother to suppress the resulting shiver. He can feel Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile at what Geralt allows himself to show. “Do you know what they’re made of, Geralt?”

A low rumble deep in his chest indicates that Geralt does not, in fact, know the composition of the lights that hang above them, suspended in the heavens, slowly twirling in their endless dance that cares not for the lives and troubles of men.

“ _Hmmm_ is right, for even the scholars still aren’t sure, but there’s a new theory being advanced that, perhaps, when the stars burst forth into existence, the universe created the things that make up life, all life, star life, _our_ life. The stars formed and they lived their lives on a scale of time barely comprehensible to us. Some of them shined so blazingly bright that they burned out quickly and exploded upon their deaths, sending pieces of them deeper into the dark, and the planets formed from this, and then on down the line _we_ formed from this, and so we all have pieces of stars in our hair and our eyes and our veins, and we and the stars, we’re one and the same. I like this. I find it . . . poetic.”

“Poetry in the stars,” Geralt whispers, for anything louder would be too much for the delicate moment between them. He bends slightly to brush a kiss on the crown of Jaskier’s head, his mumbled _tell me more_ nearly lost among the still-thick strands of hair.

“We’re the same.” There’s that dreamy quality again to Jaskier’s voice, and in times like this Geralt is so full of love for his dreamer, his poet, that he can hardly contain himself and one kiss to Jaskier’s head becomes two and then more, and it’s only Jaskier’s reluctantly-murmured _stop distracting me_ that makes him cease. “We are ashes from the stars’ violent deaths, but we coalesce and join together into these wonderfully complicated beings, and we live and we love and we die, and when we die we become ashes once more, back to being the stuff of stars. I know not what happens after death, but I do so like the idea that one day, when I die, I’ll somehow return to the stars and I’ll be there above you, watching over from afar.” 

Tension floods into Geralt so quickly, and with such force, that he jolts with a start, nearly dislodging Jaskier’s head from where it rests on his chest. “You’re _not_ going to--”

“Hush, dear heart,” Jaskier croons, and he pushes himself up so that he’s leaning over Geralt, the stars dancing merrily at his back, blissfully ignorant of their earthly turmoil. His fingers, soft, _so soft_ , trail an achingly tender path down Geralt’s cheek before winding around a stray tendril of hair. “Years in the future, still, but inevitable. One day I will die, and you will hurt and you will ache and you will cry to the gods, but nothing will bring me back to you, noth--”

“This is _not helping_ , Jaskier,” Geralt growls, his grip on his composure sliding away, leaving him dangling on the precipice of wildness.

Jaskier lays a finger over Geralt’s lips, silently soothing him. “I would lessen your burden, if I could. I’ve been thinking about it in the weeks since I left Oxenfurt last, and I’ve been scribbling down lyrics and testing out meters. A song, for my words will live on long past my voice, and when you hear it, after I’m gone, no matter if you’re in a tavern in Toussaint or in Redania, you’re to go outside and find a star and there I’ll be, shining just for you.”

Geralt takes several deep breaths, and when he speaks, his voice is, miraculously, steady. “Any old star?”

“Surely not!” Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s hand--the one not currently occupied by gripping his own shirt on Jaskier’s back, holding him close, as if Death cannot take Jaskier from him if his hold is strong enough--and points upwards. “Only that one shall do. Find that one and you will find me, watching and waiting and loving you, forever.”

“The brightest star in the night sky, Jaskier?”

Geralt gets the quickest glimpse of Jaskier’s cheeky grin before their foreheads touch and then all Geralt can see is the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, as bright and shining and full of devotion for Geralt now as they were more than thirty years before, when they shared their very first adventure. “But of course! Nothing less than the brightest star shall do for me, my love, for I _am_ the brightest bard to ever wander the Continent.”

“You make a fair point.”

“I make an _excellent_ point. Now kiss me, Geralt, for I am still here and I am yours, always yours, and I wish very much to be reminded of this with your usual diligence and dedication to pleasure, both mine and also yours.”

Geralt rolls them over, and Jaskier’s now half off of their bedroll, blades of grass soft at his back, and his cheeks are flushed and his breath comes quick and he can’t quite stop biting his lip, and Geralt is convinced that he has never, in their long acquaintance, looked more beautiful than he does in this moment, luminous in the shining starlight, and Geralt kisses him, and they will never forget that they belong to each other, but nevertheless, it’s always good to be reminded anyway.

*

_decades upon decades later_

The bard is young, and his eyes are a deep brown, and his voice shows hints of a facility with agile leaps among octaves that will be enviable one day.

Geralt, however, flush with ale and (surprisingly good) lamb and coin after successfully fulfilling a contract for a selkiemore, hasn’t been paying much attention to the bard; his mind, as ever, is on the next steps on his Path and the more immediate need of a bath. But then his Witcher hearing catches a snippet of the bard’s song-- _raise your weary head_ and _look up, look up I say_ and _find me there, among the stars--_ and the bard’s voice has neither the strength nor the sweetness of Jaskier’s, but Geralt finds himself lost in memory nonetheless, as he always does when he hears this song, which he always hears because Jaskier never managed to write a song that didn’t captivate all who heard it. It’s been long enough now that the memory of him doesn’t hurt as it once did, a dull ache somewhere behind his heart rather than a sharp lancing pain that threatens to consume him, but he dutifully pushes the bench back and walks outside and _looks up_.

The night is peaceful and calm and clear, and it takes but a moment to find his star, twinkling brightly.

“Hello my love,” Geralt whispers, and he can swear that the star winks at him, waiting oh so patiently--for stars have their own sense of time and Jaskier will wait forever for Geralt if he must--for the day they find each other yet again.


End file.
